Insert Taps Here

I suppose this is the appropriate time to mourn, remember and say elegies for The Human Known as Mike Seaver:

www.wayofthemaster.com

A Human Doing Work is Spellbinding Dullness.

THIS is what the humans call the Graduate School? The school of cheapskate T.O.C.E. going to the library to check out a book she's already read--already owned, in fact, less than a month ago, but sold to pay for the drive out here-- to go check out said book, only to find all the regular copies out, so she has to get the book in large print, which screws up all of said book's trademark late-Nineties/early 'Oh-sies,' irony-is-the-new-Drakkar-Noir formatting, and allows her to hold said book far in front of her lap, so I can lie in between said book and said T.O.C.E., getting lots of attention in the forms of scratches and snuggling...and creating a clear sight line for me to read it as well, in the process?

Mama like.

A full report on said book in the near future, but first, a textual question for my readers--

Who is this human called "Mister T?"

Alterna-Kor.

She's been socializing and drinking beer amongst the chipmunks, that one.

10 Fun Facts, Part Un.

1) The current Governor of Iowa, whose human name sounds something like Tim Jellyneck, is originally from Pittsburgh. He went to Shadside Academy. F**king Soc.

2) The One Called Elena plays loud music in the car on long trips, either to stay awake or to drown out my plaintive prison ballads. Amazing how I can make a meow sound like a harmonica.

3) It is very difficult to paw the door off of a Deluxe PET COTM Cat Carrier, size medium (10-15 pounds/poids). Not that I didn't try.

3) The stretch of Highway 80 that runs through rural Illinois smells just like what it might if I had crapped in said cat carrier, thus causing T.O.C.E. much internal strife. Haw.

4) I can actually go 36+ hours without either eating or crapping. I am a machine. A robot, nofood, nocrap killing machine from the cat future.

5) Our new place has no stairs and is sunk down into the ground.

6) This means that, when I sit in the windows, I am at grass-level, and can watch all the chipmunks puttering around the yard, their cheeks bulging with booty.

7) I am a chipmunk hawk. Or, perhaps, a chipmunk Hawkeye.

8) The Other One and his Bald Friend were here for a while, back when I was neither eating nor crapping. They dropped a whole bunch of heavy square objects (great for climbing, hiding and chipmunk-hawking) on the floor of the place, then disappeared. Now T.O.C.E. sort of slides them around, taking stuff out of one and putting it in another. Then she stops, lays on the couch and sighs for about 88 minutes. Then she gets up and does it again.

9) Somebody should give T.O.C.E. a job or something. She's around way too much and totally cramping my chipmunk-hawking style.

10) No matter where life takes you, you can always hide under the bed.

CHARLENE is unable to post to her blog right now, as she has been under the bed for the past two days (and counting). In her absence, she asks that you view this picture of two bleary-eyed humans, neither of whom are employed by GIANT EAGLE, inc., and mock it relentlessly. Sincerely, the Webmaster

All Aboard RIZ's Train to Craptown

Somebody actually posted this comment under my last entry:

Riz said...
Great blog site, lots of info really liked it.I have a Ceiling Fan Blade Cover Palm site/blog. It pretty much covers Ceiling Fan Blade Cover Palm related stuff.Come and check mine out if you get time.


RRRRRRRR! This really chaps my hide. The generic compliments, the obvious pseudonym, the windup and the pitch for some bullshit product. Who in their right minds would ever enjoy a blog devoted to Ceiling Fan Blade Cover Palms, whatever those are? And if Mssr. "RIZ" actually did scope the "information" on my blog, that little mother would know from reading my tracts that I AM AFRAID OF FANS. J'accuse!!!!!

So, screw you, RIZ. Charlene hates your guts. There will be no place for you on the mothership.

And by the way, your fans are so stupid, not even T.O.C.E. would buy one. Which is a total dig, 'cuz she buys everything stupid. Yeah, I said it.

So, readers, please let me know if you are a legitimate congregant of C.'s T.-L. B. Show this "RIZ" how a dutiful human posts comments. Some suggested topics:

1) Advanced Weight and Hairball Management
2) Amputees
3) 10th Century Japanese female poets
4 The Dementia of The Other One
5) The Dumbness of T.O.C.E.
6) Eating Bugs
7) Feline ailments (see Asthma, Anxiety, megalomania, Obesity, Squinty Eye)
8) Flux Capacitators and the Space Time Continuum
9) Gospel Music
10) Harmonicas
11) Iowa
12) Puking
13) Shedding
14) Sleeping
15) Snubbing
16) The Song "We are Siamese" from Lady and the Tramp
17) Squirrels
18) Steroids
19) Telekinesis
20) Weight Training

You may turn your papers over and begin writing. Good Luck.

Charlene Don't Make This Sheet Up.

Today she bought a talking jump rope.
Within 10 minutes of removing it from the package, she had broken it already.
Kill me.

Thank You, Cat Fairy

...for granting my wish and getting T.O.C.E. down out my grill for many different events this upcoming week. She's been bellyaching to me about how this is her last week in Pittsburgh (like I care) and how she hopes to see everyone she's ever met at (at least) one of the following outings, blah, blah, human trauma, blah. So, readers, please show up and distract her for long periods of time. I need an empty apartment to work on my cat biceps.

MONDAY -- T.O.C.E. will be at The One Called The Sleaze, Club Cafe, at 11pm. She says, "Take a nap." This is a free event, skinflints.

TUESDAY-- The One Called Jay "Fattypants" O'berski hosts a reading of some old human 'play' called GOD OF VENGEANCE, in which T.O.C.E. reads the part of a hooker. Haw. At the studio Theatre, 8pm. Also free, tightwads.

THURSDAY-- T.O.C.E. and The Other One will see the 'play,' pictured in the post below, in Frick Park at 8pm. She plans to drink afterwards. Both these activities will cost you (and her) dough, cutting into my inheritance.

SATURDAY-- Big record swap and old soul dance party at the Shadow Lounge, 8pm-late. Back on kitty death row, I knew a cat named Shadow. I had a real problem with his politics. www.steelcitysoul.org (costs money, fools).

SUNDAY-- Much packing and weeping, and, if you like, drinking of six packs on our bare living room floor. Just show up anytime; T.O.C.E. will provide beer. Who knows? Maybe I'll even make an appearance.

MONDAY-- Sayonara, suckers.

This is a 5-Headed Human Named Art.

I think they all make these faces and then sing the title of a Pink Floyd album over and over and over again. They do it in a park and then everybody bashes their hands together at the end of it, like fighting, only with yourself. I'd rather lick my leg stump.

Orbiting the Moons of Jupiter...

I wonder if steroids make your fur softer. Yes, you heard it right folks, after a month or so off the Arnolds, I started wheezing again and The One Called Elena shot me full of gym candy faster than you can say "The First Step is Admitting You Have A Problem." (which actually takes a long time to say, defeating the point.)

So anyhoo, now that I'm using again, my already silky coat has become so lustrous, so flocculent, so plumate, so velutinous, that I've started watching my gossamer back, lest one of the humans think to use me as a shammy. I totally forgot why I decided to tell you this.

Anyhoo, I'm stoned to the bejeesus belt and those two humans must be, too, as they're throwing all the stuff that I like to shed on into tall, small, wide and narrow boxes. I really, really don' t like where this is going. Gotta go...I feel another flying kitten hallooseygoosey comin' on...

Dude, I Am, Like, So Geeked UP Right Now!

Mawwiage. Mawwiage Is Whut Bwings Us Togefuw Todaay...

Must...stop...sniggering...Urge...to mock...humans...rising....!!!